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Matt knew Hell's Kitchen like he knew his own body, but over the years he'd learned to pay particular attention to dumpsters and their contents. He couldn't exactly pick out specifics, but the way the sound bounced off it could tell him whether it was soft enough to cushion a fall or spiky enough to make the pavement a better option. He used the information less often these days – a combination of happiness and the relative old age of his mid-30s had made him considerably smarter about what he did – but by this point the checking was instinctive.
These days, it mostly resulted in light animal rescue. They usually ended up in Foggy- and Karen-approved shelters, though he was responsible for both of Karen's cats and Luke and Claire's dog. It was hardly the most important work he did as Daredevil, but it was nice sometimes to have something light as a counterpoint.
That night, he'd just cleaned up a group of thugs connected to the Russian mob when he caught the sound of a heartbeat in a dumpster a few blocks away. He was already moving towards it when he realized there was something off about it, that it was too big to even be the large dog he'd originally pictured. And, now that he was paying attention, he could definitely smell blood coming from the same direction.
A human. Bleeding.
He dropped down into the dumpster in question, slowing his descent with the help of the nearest fire escape. He first checked for weapons, then injuries, and there were none of the first and nothing immediately life-threatening of the second. There was a phone with a cracked screen and a weird, device-like bracelet around one wrist that he immediately pocketed, but far more distracting was the slowly dawning realization that whoever this was felt young. Not a child, but either still a teenager or not nearly far enough past that point.
When he got to the head, he realized two things that were even more immediately relevant. He felt wetness against the kids' hair, a scalp wound that was hopefully shallow, and the edges of torn fabric next to it. Fabric that, when he carefully felt his way around, also covered the kid's face in carefully sewn, contoured lines. A homemade mask.
Shit. He'd found a teenage vigilante.
Well, that eliminated the hospital. He briefly wrestled with what to do, thought about what Foggy or Claire would say if they were here versus the fact that he was also a vigilante trying to keep his identity a secret. Maybe he could—
The thought cut off when the kid shifted, groaning a little. "Five more minutes, May," he murmured.
Matt sighed, knowing there was only one possible answer. Picking the kid up in a careful fireman's carry, he slowly made his way home.
#
He had to lay the kid down on the fire escape first, then maneuver him into the apartment. He'd briefly regained consciousness along the way, muttering something about swinging, but he knew from personal experience that pain meant you weren't exactly coherent. The question was moot at the moment, since he was out again, and though Matt would have to wake him up regularly to keep him from dying of a concussion he could at least get a little sleep.
He laid him out on the kitchen floor, heading for the nearest first aid kit (they had one in every room of the apartment, though Matt definitely wasn't always the one getting patched up). It would be harder to sew him up when he didn't have his own pain receptors to check his work, but he could at least take care of the basics without waking—
Too late. He tracked the subtle shifts that meant Foggy was waking up, mentally followed him from the bedroom to the kitchen even as he pressed a cloth against the kid's head wound. He had other injuries, including one on his arm that he was pretty sure hadn't stopped bleeding yet, but scalp injuries bled disproportionately and it was best to get that taken care of.
Foggy started speaking before the click of the light turning on. "Either you're sitting in a really weird position or you're not the one who's actually injured, which means you get extra points for..." His voice trailed off, and the silence that followed had a heavier weight than Matt had expected. He almost never came home seriously injured anymore – Foggy had instituted a point system for it that came with some very interesting prizes – and Foggy himself had gotten so good at first aid that he'd stepped in for Claire on more than one occasion with the other Defenders. Maybe it was how young the kid was?
Matt was about to point out his own displeasure on the topic when Foggy finally found his voice. "Sweetheart," he asked slowly, sounding slightly strangled. "Why is Spider-Man on our kitchen floor?"
Matt went still at the unexpected development. Nelson, Murdock, & Page had an... unusual relationship with Spider-Man. "Are you sure?"
"Unless some idiot child has gone to a lot of trouble to recreate his most recent costume, then yeah, I'm pretty damn sure." He knelt down, reaching for the first aid kit, then hesitated. "I'm not sure if it would be better or worse if it was just some random kid."
Equally uncertain of the answer, he reached into his pocket and tossed Foggy the phone and the bracelet he'd pulled off the kid's wrist. There was a wet sound he couldn't identify, then sudden movement in the opposite direction of Foggy at the same moment both Foggy and his heartrate jumped. "Well, it's definitely Spider-Man," he said, voice a little shaky but nothing about him seeming injured. "We now have web all over our kitchen wall."
Foggy dropped the device, turning his attention to the phone. "Several texts and voicemails from two people, listed in the phone as M.J. and Ned. Given the texts, I refuse to listen to the messages because they will absolutely make me cry." His thumbs moved. "I sent a text to both of them saying 'I'm not dead,' which is more honest than 'I'm okay' but still mildly comforting. After that, it's Spider-Man's problem."
With a sigh, he took over putting pressure on the head wound. "I'll take this over while you get out of your bondage gear. I know you can do flying spin kicks in it, but you will never convince me it's actually comfortable to exist in."
Gratitude outweighing the faint twinge of guilt, Matt headed into the bedroom. First step was retrieving his wedding ring from its spot in the top right drawer, then changing into sweatpants and a t-shirt. He wanted to wear one of Foggy's – often did, after he went out on patrol – but there was a non-zero chance it would get blood on it and that would just be rude.
As he changed, he thought about the practically-a-teenager in his kitchen. The firm had technically defended Spider-Man almost a year ago, though the case had never gone to trial and they'd never actually met the man in person. It had fit in well with their growing reputation among the costumed community, and though it had caused some controversy they'd picked up several clients from it.
The only problem was, none of them remembered what the charges against Spider-Man had been, or how anyone thought they'd be able to bring him to trial. They also couldn't remember how they'd actually been hired, though there was a deposit in their account from Stark Industries, or talking to Spider-Man or anyone involved with him. They were also missing their files on the case, even though they would have started doing background research the moment they agreed to take him on.
When he returned to the kitchen, he took the head wound back over so Foggy could get a closer look at Spider-Man's other injuries. "There goes my theory that he's the one who stole the files," Foggy murmured, nearly as methodical as Claire as he cleaned and bandaged. The one on the arm required stitches, which Foggy started on in neat careful loops Matt knew from personal experience. (He could stitch himself up if he had to, but it had been a long, long time since he'd had to.)
The kid stirred when the needle first went in, though drowsily enough to suggest plenty of experience with pain. "I'm glad I'm alive," he said blearily, trying to look around. "But where am I?"
"Stop moving," Matt ordered gently, shifting his grip. "You have a head injury."
"And a concussion," Foggy added, shining what was presumably his cell phone flashlight into the kid's eyes. "So we're going to have to wake you up every hour or so to make sure you don't die on us."
"S'okay. M.J. and Ned'd be pissed if I died." He sighed. "Last time I just set alarms on my phone so I wouldn't do it and make them sad."
Matt's chest tightened, unable to help thinking of all the times he'd held on just a little bit longer so he could hear Foggy's voice again. From the pained sound Foggy made, he was probably thinking the same thing. "We definitely don't want that to happen."
"That's nice." The kid's voice was fading out. "'m sleep now."
The last word drifted off until it was barely legible, his breathing and heart rate settling back into the rhythm of unconsciousness. After a few moments, Foggy let out a ragged breath. "Matty."
"I know." He freed one hand for Foggy's searching one, holding on tight when he found it. He didn't mention the reference to someone named May earlier, pretty sure it was telling that her name hadn't come up now. No one became a vigilante without losing someone. "But it's okay. We found him."
"Yeah." Foggy exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss against Matt's hand before letting go. "Now let's get this guy put back together so we don't upset Ned and M.J. any more than they already will be."
Foggy finished sewing the wound on Spider-Man's arm while Matt got a clean washcloth and gently washed the dried blood off his head. It ended up needing a few stitches as well, which Matt did this time because they were better done by touch than by sight.
Once they were done, they finished getting him out of the suit and put him in a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants that were close enough to fitting. Then they put him on the couch, covered him up with a blanket, and tried not to think the phrase "tucking in."
When they were done, Foggy slid his arms around Matt's middle and pulled him close. "Before you try to be all self-sacrificial and stay up with the kid, I would like to remind you that we're also perfectly capable of setting a bunch of alarms. I'll call Karen in the morning, tell her we'll be in late."
Matt let himself lean against Foggy, arms tight around him and nose buried in his hair. He breathed in Foggy's scent, earthy and sweet, and felt the steady, beautiful thump of his heartbeat through his own chest. "You shouldn't have to stay up just because I brought home another vigilante."
"I also shouldn't have to spend any more of the night sleeping without my husband, which right now is a much higher priority for me." He stepped away only far enough to start tugging Matt down the hallway.
Matt smiled, letting himself be pulled.
#
Sleeping with Foggy was always twice as restful as sleeping without Foggy (even when they'd done a thorough job of distracting each other from sleeping beforehand), so even the few interrupted hours Matt got left him feeling surprisingly refreshed. That meant he was comfortably up before Spider-Man, waiting in a nearby chair with a cup of coffee when the kid woke up that morning.
The kid hesitated, probably still confused, then jack-knifed into a sitting position as any memories the night before came flooding back. That was when the headache hit, his body protesting the dramatic movement, and the kid doubled over clutching his head. "Ow."
Matt smiled, taking a sip of his coffee. "Good morning to you, too."
Gingerly, the kid straightened back into a sitting position. "Thank you. I kind of have vague memories of you being the reason I'm not in a—" He stopped abruptly, heart suddenly racing. "You caught a brick someone threw through my window."
Matt went absolutely still. "What."
The kid winced. "Sorry. I didn't say that. I shouldn't have said that." He stood, like he was about to go somewhere, then stopped and looked down like he'd just realized he wasn't wearing his own clothes. "I'm sorry again, but I'll be out of your hair as soon as I get my suit back." He touched his wrist, then winced. "And any web shooters I might have left?"
Matt stayed where he was, making himself think. Both his lawyer and Daredevil instincts made him want to jump straight into an interrogation, but if he did that the kid might head out the window with or without his stuff. He'd probably had a lot of people asking him questions over the years, and answering them had meant risking everything that made him put that suit. More importantly, it meant risking the two people he'd tried so hard to stay alive for.
Matt let out a slow breath. "You know, my firm defended Spider-Man once," he said quietly, tone conversational. "The funny thing is, I don't remember it. None of us do."
The kid had watched him the entire time he spoke, heart doing something complicated. After a long moment, his hands dropped to his sides. "I screwed up," he said quietly, voice thick. "Dr. Strange had to make it so everyone forgot me. Peter Parker still technically exists in databases, but my history is gone. Almost nobody knows who I am anymore."
There had been moments in Matt's life when he might have wished for something like that, but only when he was at his most self-destructive. And now... now he couldn't think of anything more horrifying. "I'm sorry."
"Like I said, it was my fault." He scrubbed his hands across his face, wincing again when his head protested. "We were having a client meeting when someone threw a brick through our window. You caught it before it could hit either me or Aunt May. I didn't put it all together with Daredevil until... after."
If he hadn't re-met Peter, he might have yelled at his past self for the recklessness of the move. Now, though, he could all too easily imagine that it hadn't been an accident at all. That he'd wanted the super-powered kid to realize he wasn't alone, no matter how much it felt like everyone hated him.
He took another drink of his coffee. "Do we have to take care of whoever left you in that dumpster?"
He winced again, but this time his body signals had a definite edge of embarrassment. "That was me, actually. I went after a purse snatcher on the way home from my new job, and he turned out to belong to an entire group of very large guys who were mad at me. I managed to get away, but..."
"You've got to be careful in Hell's Kitchen," Foggy cut in, moving to pick up his own cup of coffee before heading into the living room. "Around here, even purse snatchers probably have mob connections some kind."
Peter groaned. "Good to know."
Foggy tossed him his phone. "You missed several calls and texts last night. From the most recent texts, M.J. and Ned have already cut class and started an impromptu road trip back to New York to confirm the whole 'not dead' thing."
"Oh no." Still, Peter lit up a dozen different ways to Matt's senses as he caught the phone, scrambling for a number. He pressed it to his ear, his sigh of relief unmistakable when in connected. "I'm so sorry, M.J. Listen, I..."
As they listened to Peter's apology and reassurances combined with M.J.'s tearful shouting, Foggy sat down on the arm of Matt's chair. "Reminds me of the old days," Foggy murmured, running his fingers through his hair.
Matt curled an arm around Foggy's thigh. "Back when I was even more of an idiot?"
Foggy pressed a kiss against the top of his head. "Yep." There was a smile in his voice, which sobered a heartbeat later. "Did you get the guys who went after him?"
Matt mentally ran through what he knew of the group he'd taken care of last night. "I think so, but I'll check just to make sure."
When the call was finished – M.J. had apparently handed the phone to Ned at some point – he turned back to them radiating sheepishness. "I've got to go see if my backpack is somehow miraculously still in its hiding place. I don't suppose my suit's in any shape to still be worn?"
"Even if it was, you've only got one of your shooter things," Foggy said easily. "So how about we all go out together, as regular non-costumed people, and see if we can find your stuff and get you back to wherever you belong. We'll even buy breakfast."
Peter went still. "You don't have to," he said finally, radiating an equal mixture of wariness and hope. "I'll be okay."
"You'd better listen to the man," Matt said, standing the same time Foggy did. "I've learned to, over the years."
"And if you try to leave without us," Foggy added, "My darling husband will absolutely track you down."
Matt flashed him what Foggy had always referred to as his "Daredevil smile," but somehow it made Peter relax a little.
As they went to get changed, Foggy leaned in close. "Well, I always did say I wished there was a safe way we could adopt," he murmured.
Matt's chest tightened. "Just what you always wanted – a barely-grown vigilante."
He could practically feel Foggy's smile. "Oh, you have your charms."